Lineage
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: A vampire comes to the Phantom's lair to offer him immortality, but is he too late?
1. Prologue

As he stood watching, after Raoul and Christine left, their voices echoing as they sang a duet, the doors of his home burst open. He turned as the angry mob of the opera's cast rushed in, headed by the two managers. 

"There he is!" Firmin shouted, "The Opera Ghost!"

"You shall pay dearly," Andre put in, "for the havoc you have wreaked upon this opera!"

"I think not, my dear _Messieurs_," the Ghost said and turned to escape.

"We would differ, Phantom," Firmin returned as their foe found himself surrounded.

Two men of the cast grabbed the Phantom from behind and allowed the others to punch him out until he doubled over in silent pain. They released him, the menace collapsing to the floor onto his knees, his face contorted into a pained grimace. As he held his arms over his sore gut, someone kicked him full in the face, forcing him flat onto his back. The assault on the Phantom of the Opera continued. Much as he tried, he could not fight back nor defend himself. Though he got in a few blows of his own, he could not hold them off long enough to draw his dagger and get to his feet. 

Finally after an hour and what seemed an eternity to the infamous Ghost, there was a break. 

"Let us see," one of the male chorus members said, "what lies beneath this mask of his."

He felt two strong men grab his arms and drag his beaten form to his knees, the male chorus member lifting his head up to tear away the mask. 

"Wait!" Carlotta cried, "Let me do it! I will be the first to see who has continuously ruined my performances!"

The large Prima Donna came forward and tore away the white leather, a scream of disgust and horror escaping her lips. One of the men holding the Ghost took hold of his thick black hair and forced his head back for all to see his deformed face. The mob backed away in disgust, each with expressions of horror.

"Good Lord," Firmin gasped, his hand in front of his face, "That face…"

"He's hideous!" Carlotta got out.

Andre remained silent, gaping at the sight of their tormentor's face, staying just behind Firmin.

"Leave him be," he whispered.

"What?" Firmin turned to face his partner.

"Are you mad?" one of the opera's cast exclaimed.

"Look at him!" Andre continued, "Look at the creature! Perhaps we have done enough."

"Andre, you are surely mad!" Firmin glared at him, "This man… this monster has caused us havoc, wreaked destruction and cost us money! We have been blackmailed by him and coerced into obeying his demands, bowing to his every whim, indulging his fancies… in short we have been forced to run the opera his way!"

"Firmin," Andre went on, "Mother Nature has inflicted more damage than we ever could. Surely by what we have done to him combined with that… face is punishment enough for what he has done."

"This creature has killed!" his elder partner argued, "He murdered Joseph Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi! He must pay, must answer for their deaths! He deserves more than death! I must insist we put the creature out of his and everyone else's misery!"

Firmin approached the Ghost and knelt, lifting the monster's head and stared into the cold, sorrow filled eyes.

"Your reign ends tonight, Phantom," he said quietly, his voice low and threatening.

The elder manager raised his fist and backhanded the man who had destroyed a priceless chandelier and ran the opera through his threatening letters. 

Blood spattered on the floor as it filled the Ghost's mouth, gushing from his nose. Firmin's chest heaved as he looked down on the menace, rage building within his breast like a blazing inferno, fuming. He grabbed hold of the lapels of the Phantom's coat, tearing him from the grasp of the two men who'd been holding him. A hollow crack sounded as Firmin slammed the 'monster' against the wall. He held him there, arm against his throat, and punched the supposed spectre as hard as he could in the gut. 

"Please…" he pleaded, finding it difficult to breathe past the manager's arm, "stop…"

"Had enough have you?" Firmin queried, "Well, I haven't!"

He backed away, the Opera Ghost sliding to the floor onto his front, gasping for breath thankful for the relief. Suddenly, Firmin placed his foot on his back and applied the whole of his weight, his prisoner crying out in pain. 

"_S'il vous plait,_" the Phantom wheezed, "The… pain…"

"The pain too much for you now, _non_?" the manager inquired, gently.

"Com…passion," came the strained, painful reply, "I implore you."

"Compassion?" Firmin exclaimed, "You dare ask for compassion?"

He dragged the beaten freak to his feet and threw him against the piano, the keys reverberating with his slight weight as he slid to the floor.

"Where was the compassion when you killed Piangi and Buquet?" the enraged manager demanded, "Answer me that! Where was it when you killed them?!"

"Didn't…" the Ghost said, trying in vain to get up, "kill… Buquet."

"I've had it with you, Phantom!" he returned and turned to the mob, "Finish him, kill him, do whatever you wish with him. Just put the wretched creature out of our misery!"

The mob all too gladly continued beating his already sore, bruised and battered body until they grew weary and he hadn't the strength, until it was too painful to move and they left him for dead…


	2. Will it never end?

                   Wearily, Erik's eyes slowly opened as wide as his weakened, bruised and battered body would allow. He was still alive… why was Fate always so cruel to him? Why couldn't he just die and be done with the world? The alarm for an intruder on his lake was going off; someone was coming, he had to hide. _Why?_ he thought, _Why don't I just let whoever it is finish me off? I just want it all to end…I'm so tired…_ His thoughts trailed off as he summoned what strength he had left and stumbled to his throne. He pressed a hidden knot in the arm of his chair, the seat cushion lifting to reveal a secret niche. He hid himself away, closing the seat, as he curled up into a fetal position as he heard people entering his home. He could hear their voices as they searched around for the infamous Phantom; it was the managers and the _Sourete_.

"He was here!" Firmin insisted, "He was beaten lifeless last night!"

"Calm down, _monsieur_," one of the officers said, "there is evidence to back up what you're telling us, but apparently he was not dead."

"Where could he have gone?" Andre queried.

Footsteps, moving through his rooms, throughout the place as the police inspected the premises in search of the Phantom.

"We cannot be sure," the officer went on, "Apparently he is no longer present. We will set up guards at all known entrances to this area. If he's still alive and tries to sneak out, we'll catch him."

                   The Ghost listened as they footsteps and voices retreated, and the moment he heard the door shut, the dam broke. He wept uncontrollably, his sore body quaking with the force of his outward grief. He was too weak to stop himself, but he managed to stave his tears off long enough to stagger out of his hiding place and to the bed that had replaced the coffin in his room. His legs collapsed, his body dropping onto the bed, as his outburst returned in full force, the tears coursing down his cheeks endlessly. He couldn't stop and he made no attempt at doing so, moans of 'Christine' escaped his lips between sobs.

"I'm sorry, Christine," he hiccupped, "I'm sorry… please, come back… come back… Christine…"

He slipped into an exhausted slumber long before his sobs ceased, his dreams plagued by nightmares of the past. At one point his mother's voice called his name, he looked up, and there she was. He flinched expecting her to hit him, but she pulled him into her arms, holding him tight and close as she would a child, her touch tender and loving, motherly.

"Hush, Erik," she soothed, "Do not let go, my son. He is coming to your aid."

_He?__ He who?_ He wondered as he spoke aloud, "Mama?" God, his voice was quiet and childish, "You're not going to punish me?"

"No, Erik, not anymore," she whispered, rubbing his back, "And I'm sorry I ever did. You are my son, my only child, I was just too immature to acknowledge it. But I love, Erik, I love you. Your face is nothing, you are everything to me, now."

"But I haven't been good," he moaned, "I've done bad things."

"Hush, baby," she cooed, "You've been punished enough. You don't need anymore abuse, you need a mother's love, _my_ love. And you have it, whenever you need it."

She rocked him back and forth comfortingly; she was so real, he could smell her perfume, feel her soft, flawless skin and loving embrace.

"I believe I owe you two birthday presents," she smiled.

"The kisses…?" he questioned.

"Yes, and you shall have them when next we meet."

"I've waited my whole life for a kiss, haven't I waited long enough? Why can I not have them now?"

"Because unfortunately, this is only a dream, Erik. I want to give them to you when we truly see each other again. And we will, if you make the right choice."

"What choice?"

"I can tell you no more, son. Now, quickly wake, before you are discovered!"

                   Erik woke, the dream no longer there, his heart falling and his eyes welling with tears again. He should've known it was only a dream; his mother never loved him and never would and she was gone now, they would never meet again, not on this Earth. But it had been so real… The alarm! The alarm was going off, there was an intruder! No wonder she willed him to wake… no, the sound of the alarm roused him, not his mother's warning. He had hardly risen from his bed, when he heard steps outside in the main room; he huddled himself into a corner, shrouding himself completely in his black cloak. His door opened and there was a moment of tense silent before the door closed and the steps retreated, leaving the house. He rose, his legs and body shaking from the effort on his weakened and beaten form. For the next day or so, Erik tried to get some food into his body, his stomach wouldn't accept it. So he resigned himself to hiding away in the niche beneath the cushion of his throne, his grief returning and he wept even as he wavered between sleep and wakefulness, using the fluids left in his body…


End file.
